Total pages in book: 9
Estimated words: 8169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 41(@200wpm)___ 33(@250wpm)___ 27(@300wpm)
Estimated words: 8169 (not accurate)
Estimated Reading Time in minutes: 41(@200wpm)___ 33(@250wpm)___ 27(@300wpm)
Now, I need a new dream — I haven’t found it yet, but I will, which is how I find myself in Pearl Spring’s Colorado. I was on my way home, but I got sidetracked by the cute little town. For some reason, I want to browse each store and find whatever restaurant or bakery has made that cinnamon roll I’m smelling. My tummy rumbles as the scent hits me again. I’ve been driving up and down Main Street looking for a place to park, but it’s no use. Every space is full. For the fourth time, I pull to a complete stop at the four-way stop at the end of Main Street.
I wait my turn, but just as I start to go, a white SUV blows through the stop sign well after I’ve already pulled into the intersection to turn left. I don’t have enough time to react before the SUV plows into the side of my tiny Honda Civic. I can hear metal crunching loudly and feel glass raining down on me. It seems like I’m going in slow motion, though that can’t be true given the speed of the SUV. I can’t scream for some reason, though my throat feels like I am. Maybe I can’t hear myself. My head is splitting open in pain though I don’t remember hitting it. Finally, the car stops moving, but I can’t hear anything but air hissing to my left. I fumble with my seatbelt, but it’s stuck. Frustrated, I lean back. Searing pain and a blinding light fill my head. A hot liquid burns my face. I might be crying, or it might be blood hitting what feels like a million open wounds on my face. It stings. Everything hurts, and it feels like the end. The end when I was just beginning.
My last thoughts aren’t what they probably should be, though. For some reason, all I can think is that I am going to die, and I’ve never been kissed. I never did a lot of things that I should have done. What a stupid thing to think about at a time like this. Then there is nothing but darkness. I’ve only been doing this job for five years.
two
JEFFERSON SANDERS
I am standing in the fire station kitchen, waiting for my lunch, leftover spaghetti and meatballs my sister made for dinner last night, to be done. My sister lives on the other side of town with our parents. She’s twenty, almost twelve years younger than I am. She was a surprise for my parents.
I spend most of my time at the station, but I have a small apartment above the bakery on Main Street. It’s not much, and it’s not home, but I’ll have one day. The microwave dings, and I pull out the hot plastic out. As usual, the stupid pasta is still cold. I move to put it back in for a few more minutes when the station alarm goes off.
“MVA possible injuries Main and Pike,” The 911 dispatcher, Penny, says over the intercom. I drop the Tupperware on the counter and rush to pull my turnout gear on over my station gear.
I’ve been a volunteer firefighter going on five years now. Every call is important, but something in my gut is telling me that this one will be the most important call of my life, and I can’t shake the feeling, even as I’m suiting up. Maybe it’s my biological clock or something. Do men have those? At thirty-two, I’ve never had a steady girlfriend, and I haven’t even been with a woman in ten plus years. I’m ready to settle down, but no one in town has ever caught my eye.
On July 21, 2017, a raging wildfire, fueled by high winds and drought, tore up Crystal Falls Canyon, encircling and trapping fourteen of the Pearl Springs Hotshots who were establishing a fire break. I watched on the news, helpless. After that, I felt like I had to do something. I could no longer just sit behind a desk or in courtrooms. I gave up a job at a cushy law firm in the city and came home. I opened a small law firm here; therefore, I can easily work around fighting fires. Changing my career trajectory at thirty-two wasn’t as bad as I thought it would be.
The thing is, the fire is still causing issues for the whole damn county, and I want to do what I can for my hometown.
I lift myself up into my seat in the rig, and then we are off, racing down the street, prepared for anything. Whenever I am out on a call, my adrenaline flows, but this feels different. It feels big. Bigger than anything ever has before.
It doesn’t take long before we are on the scene. Motor oil, glass, and pieces of bumper litter the roadway. I jump out of the truck as soon as it screeches to a halt. I look over at the SUV. It clearly hit the little Honda, but we won’t know who is at fault without an investigation. The driver of the SUV is Jensen Beckett, quarterback of the football team at the high school. His parents own the bakery I live above.